


Conservation Status

by spicycake



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicycake/pseuds/spicycake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt response for the Night Vale Kinkmeme: "It takes quite a bit to get Cecil scared [...] One day, he panics on his show and suddenly disappears, leaving the town wondering and Carlos terrified."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Data Deficient

**Author's Note:**

> 11/22/13 - Oh boy, do I feel guilty as hell! For those who have left comments, no, I'm not abandoning this story! What I do have to do is go back and revise the thing, since I've discovered so many things I wish I'd taken more time on! Unfortunately, real-life things continue to derail this. I'm planning on working on this over the holidays, so if you're willing to take some chapter revisions before any new material, I hope to have something for you soon! Thanks so much for all the support!
> 
> 8/8/13 -- Wow, I haven't written anything worthy of commentary in a while, so super thanks to those who have commented and made me feel like continuing this would be a halfway decent idea! I work a 40-hour grownup job, sadly not at a radio station but with equally cranky management, so I hope to get each successive chapter up within a few days of the first! Please forgive me for a slow start, though -- my fic wheels are rusty!
> 
> And very special thanks to the anonymous prompter at nightvalecommunitykink@dreamwidth, whose yen for h/c caught my eye and reminded me how much I once loved to inflict pain on unsuspecting fictional characters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter: Cecil and Carlos discuss the culinary arts, WTNV really needs to hire a security guard, and something goes wrong. (Warnings for abduction and physical violence)

“Exciting news for the foodie set today -- a new food truck will be circulating the Old Town area, owned and operated by Night Vale entrepreneur Emily Fleischmann! Her menu includes an array of artisanal salads, featuring fresh local produce herded into the slaughter pens every morning before sunrise, as well as something called -- _rice_. Very interesting, folks. Never heard of _rice_ before, but let it never be said that I’m not willing to be first in line for some new and exotic flavors!”

Carlos glanced at the radio with a blink, then snorted a little and ducked back to the microscope with a faint smile. Cecil’s mellifluous patter was especially bright today, despite having spent two hours longer than they’d meant to parked on the edge of the scrublands the night before. Carlos had been telling Cecil about the moon, and the other man had been so enraptured Carlos hadn’t had the heart to remind him they both had work in the morning.

He had never been one to work with a radio in the background. Too difficult to hear the pulse of meters and the pinging of indicator lights and the waspish, passive-aggressive muttering of his colleagues in the lab. Carlos had made his way in the hostile environs of research largely without distraction.

And then he’d come to Night Vale, and distraction ceased to have meaning. Everything was a distraction in this town. No two things -- thoughts, occurrances, unidentified levitating objects -- seemed to have continuity with one another. At least not at first.

The weather report began with a blare of Hammond organ, and a sultry tango singer began to croon an incomprehensible ancient Finnish dialect. Carlos reached for his phone, tapping out a quick text.

_[[Do you want me to tell you what rice tastes like?]]_

The scientist sat back on his stool, hands in his lap as he waited -- then jumped and reached for the phone as it buzzed a response.

_[[NO SPOILERS]]_

Carlos grinned, pushing his safety glasses up into his hair. [[I can cook it for you. It’s really hard to make. It’s actually kind of an art.]]

This time the buzz came almost instantly.

_[[YES PLEASE]]_

And a moment later -- _[[YOURE SO SMART]]_

 _[[Why are you texting in capslock?]]_ The weather report was reaching avant-garde proportions as it wailed to a crescendo.

_[[INTERN TERRY IS DOING IT FOR ME -- HES A REAL MORON WITH TERRIBLE PHONE ETIQUETTE AND I DONT THINK HELL LAST LONG GOTTA GO KISSES]]_

“And we are back,” Cecil was intoning, his voice like a blissful sigh after the ear-ringing cacophony, and Carlos swiveled back to his microscope. That voice had become one of his dependable constants. That voice, and Cecil himself. Constantly optimistic. Constantly affectionate. Constantly distracting.

“Sounds like we’re in for a stormy next few days, so make sure to bring a backup umbrella and grappling hook when you’re waiting in line for Emily’s edibles -- she’ll be circling Old Town Tuesdays and Thursdays at five, and Mission Grove Park on Saturdays from eleven to three.” There was a brief shuffling of papers near the mic. “And by the way, Emily, if you’re listening -- you’d better bring your A-game! Our beloved town scientist has just informed me he’s quite the expert on this so-called 'rice' you’re dishing out. And take it from somebody in the know, he’s _pret-ty_ particular about what he puts in his mouth, let me tell you...” There was a pregnant pause. “And now, a few words from our sponsors!"

“Oh, come on, really Cecil?” Carlos glared at the radio, sparking electrode still hovering in one hand as the announcer’s conspiratorial chuckle drowned out the tiny screams from the petri dish.

He wasn't expecting his phone to buzz again as the pre-recorded announcement commenced -- and when it began to do so in sustained rhythm, Carlos picked it up and tucked it next to his shoulder. "What I put in my mouth, huh?"

"Well, you are quite the gourmand. You picked out the wheat-by-product substitute in Big Rico's pizza dough long before anybody else did!"

"That's because it was mealworm flour, and it was coarsely ground--"

"And chock-full of mealy protein!"

"Cecil, you're not required to endorse Big Rico's in private, and I'm sure more than a few people are going to think we're up to..."

"Up to whaaat?"

"Wh--you know!"

"Mmm...do I?"

Carlos felt his face heating. He could all but see the serpent-smile thinning Cecil's expressive mouth. They'd only been on a generous handful of dates, including the after-hours spent chatting in the radio station bathroom and dangling strings for Khoshekh's rapidly-growing kittens, and had barely gotten to second base -- which in local vernacular meant the burying of a small box containing several unidentified bones, their combined nail trimmings and a live butterfly in order to seal the bond of their growing affection. Still, Cecil had proven himself eagerly inclined towards the physical, which Carlos found to be a pleasant surprise -- they were both grown men, after all, and it was nobody in the town’s place to judge. It was just a matter of approaching things at an appropriate pace.

“C-come over tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. Tonight. I-I’ll make dinner. And we can...you know.”

Cecil let out a warm chuckle. “Get cooking?”

Carlos let out a shaky breath, then cleared his throat. “That’s a terrible cliche, and I don’t even know what you mean...” But the sibilance of that nimble voice was making him think of enthusiastic goodnight kisses and armagnac-spiked breath under a flickering porch light and he was hearing his own voice with an odd echo. Deferred tinnily by a fraction of a second.

Coming out of the radio.

“I’m on the air, aren’t I.”

“Oh, Carlos, you are just too perceptive for words! Perfect hair and the cunning wits of a raptor as depicted on the side of a stealth helicop--”

“Damn it, Cecil!--” Mortified, Carlos killed the call and hurled his phone at the wall, which gapped open just in time to cushion the expensive device in a pool of ectoplasm, allowing it to slide slowly to the floor. On air, the radio host was still chortling to himself.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll have to forgive me -- it’s just too tempting to play small, affectionate pranks on my sweet Carlos. I can just see in my mind’s eye his serious, scientific countenance giving way to a perfectly-even smile! After all, harmless joking is a wonderful way to show your loved ones how much you enjoy spending time with them. So prank! Prank because you love.”

Carlos snorted, turning his back on the radio and hunching into the microscope. He’d have turned the whole broadcast off if he’d been able. As it was, the radio wasn’t plugged into anything. Listening to NVCR was compulsory in Night Vale.

“I’m getting word of a traffic snarl on Route 800, apparently due to a large, unmarked flatbed truck...full of unmarked wooden crates and stalled just before the 6B offramp. Sheriff deputies have b-- what? What, Terry? Our intern Terry is attempting to convey some sort of message, here...what? What men in suits? Oh--” Cecil’s voice dropped abruptly in volume, apparently turning away from the microphone.

Reaching for his pen, Carlos scribbled down his particle agitation ratios on a coffee-stained notepad.  That station couldn’t possibly be so hard up that they didn’t have a security guard. Wasn’t there a Dreadnought Scout someplace that needed community service hours?

“--Good evening, gentlemen.” He was just barely audible, distance muffling his even speech. “I’m sorry, our stupid intern seems to have forgotten, but we don’t take walk-in announcements. But if you’d like to head on outside and then call, I’m sure I can shuffle you forty-five seconds or so of airtime...wh-what are you doing?--”

There was a low background murmur, the distinct pitch of voices with no discernable words -- then a yell, and a crash of something heavy overturning. Carlos stood up from his stool, aghast, and ducked for his phone, smearing otherworldly goo as he frantically tried to coax a callback from the touchscreen. “Come on, come on! Stupid piece of garbage no-button ph--”

The reception crackled with a percussive blast of static, followed by a rusty-nails-on-chalkboard squeal of feedback that drove Carlos to clap his hands over his ears, phone clattering again to the floor. The sonic drone seemed to last an eternity before terminating in three concussive pops and a sizzle, wisps of pine-smelling smoke drifting from the radio speakers.

Then, silence.

The scientist dropped to his knees, picking up the phone with shaking hands. "CALL CECIL--" The screen lit obediently blue.

Carlos was a grown man who'd seen the hind end of forty. He'd managed to survive fourteen months in Night Vale with his sanity still intact. But his throat closed and his stomach twisted into an ice-filled vacuum as he heard through the sparking radio the sound of his own call, ringing Cecil's phone somewhere in the station's broadcast room.

There was a faint breath, the tense half-groan of someone trying to collect themselves from pain. And a throat cleared. "I am...sorry, listeners. Our program has had an...unfortunate yet necessary disruption." There was something strained and dreadful about the cheerful pitch of Cecil's voice. "We'll be leaving you tonight with a recap of the weather--" The word was cut off with a pinched gasp, the ringtone in the background finally giving up. "Followed by two very special hours of Aeolian Tuba music, sponsored by the Night Vale chamber of commerce. Until next time, good night Night Vale...and be safe--"

And the station broke to soft, endless gray noise.

_To Be Continued._


	2. Endangered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter: Carlos frets, Cecil fails at negotiating, and local law enforcement does about as well as you'd expect. (Warnings for abduction and physical violence)

Against his better judgment, Carlos calmed down. 

Which meant that he’d calmly left his lab, then calmly sat down at his kitchen table, then calmly called the Sheriff's office.

“Yes, we heard the broadcast...” The dispatch receptionist had earrings that clattered against the phone receiver as she tucked it into her shoulder. Carlos was familiar with this, having made a number of emergency inquiries in the last year. “I understand you’re concerned, sir, but the Secret Police have better things to do than investigate radio publicity stunts.”

“Denise, he sounded terrified! Even the vortex didn’t have him that wound up!”

“And you’ve called his house?”

“Y-yes! Well, no, but -- he wasn’t going home...”

Denise sighed through her nose. “Yes, I know. We all know. The radio was family-friendly before you scientists came to town...”

Carlos lowered his head into his hand, fingers running into unruly dark curls. It needed cutting. Cecil wouldn’t let him. Not until funeral arrangements could be planned for the trimmings. “Could you Please. Just. Send. Somebody?”

“I’ll see if we can spare a deputy to check the station.”

Carlos sat back numbly in his chair after Denise hung up. There hadn’t been any beep of an incoming call or text while he’d been on the phone. There hadn’t been anything since Cecil’s unsettling sign-off nearly twenty minutes ago. Be safe.

“God...” Carlos shouldered off his lab coat, then lowered his face into his folded arms. Maybe it had been Management. Cecil had been spooked by his supervisors once or twice before, but that had been more of a personal pride issue. He took pride in most things. His sterling performance record at work, for instance, despite the infrequent plea for viewer support when Management went on a tear. His worldly education, too, trekking as a young man through Svitz and Luftnarp, countries most of Night Vale’s salt of the earth residents only ever imagined reading about. And not to mention, his impeccable, if occasionally eccentric, wardrobe. But that was Cecil, proud and bright and composed, except when he was upending everything Carlos had ever known to be normal and logical about himself and the world around him.

Maybe that was all this was. Just more distraction and dislogic. Who knew -- the disturbance at the station could have simply been a crowd of overenthusiastic carpet salesmen, or even a pack of rogue librarians that had crawled through an open window and gone after the intern.

Cecil would show up late, flustered and cranky, brows drawn and posture all but vibrating in readiness to be asked what was the matter, at which point he’d launch into a stage-worthy speech about station budget cuts and the rudeness of people these days, all glinting eyes and shifting saturations and graceful gesticulations.

Yes, that was all.

Stranger things had happened.

Hadn’t they?

Lifting his head, Carlos looked glumly at the clock. It was 6:70. He would wait. Cecil had said he’d come over. He’d come. And everything would be fine.

Carlos would give him an hour.

 

* * * * *

The vehicle slowed to a careful roll, tires bumping two at a time over something rigid...a curb, perhaps, or a loading ramp, and Cecil went through the checklist again.

He was still breathing. 

Good. First item on the list. A strong start.

He knew he was breathing, because something had been thrown over his head, thick dark fabric that was making said breathing a more deliberate and humid affair than normal. His head hurt rather badly, sinuses swollen and stinging, and the thickness of the air wasn’t helping any. Had he been hit? He could feel his fingers and toes as well. Also good. Four limbs were optimal. Unfortunately, two of said limbs were secured at the wrists and pinned uncomfortably between his back and what felt like the floor of a mid-sized economy cargo van.

Cecil had recaptured awareness several minutes ago. He had a foggy impression of time passed, a feverish twilight where memory slipped from the grasp of a brain too listless and limp to hold it. They had forced him to sign off the air, three men in dated suit jackets whose faces he couldn’t place, forcing him into the mic with an arm twisted close to breaking as Intern Terry lay crumpled and still on the floor. Oh god, what if Terry’s parents had been listening? Even if intern death was a necessary evil, broadcasting it live was just ghoulish!

But of course they had been listening. Everybody listened.

He’d signed off, then darkness had covered his face, his senses enveloped in burning confusion. Surely someone listening had sensed something amiss.

_Carlos will know. He must. He has to._

He felt sick to his stomach.

The van’s brakes groaned as it settled to a halt, and Cecil tipped to his side, unsure if he was hearing blood pounding in his ears, or footsteps outside the van. A moment later, the door latches squealed and a rush of night air entered. He swallowed hard, blinking in the darkness. “H-hello...?” He had no idea how loud he was speaking. His ears felt swollen and hot, and god only knew what was on the floor of this van. “I think this is a misunderstanding... d-don’t know what you want, but I-I’m sure I can get it.”

There was a flurry of hissing whispers, and a hard hand seized his ankle and dragged him towards the tailgate. “Shut up! We already have what we want!” 

An abrupt pause, then someone was grabbing the front of Cecil’s shirt, hauling him roughly over and out until his heels struck concrete and he stumbled hard to one knee. He hadn’t been wearing his jacket when the broadcast was interrupted, and the brisk night air made him shudder. “Look, if you want money, I can -- I have Traveller’s checks at home, a-and I can get cash!” Cecil turned blindly, trying to locate the speakers, his head swimming now that he was upright. “We can totally make this go aw--” He was cut off by someone’s fist like a battering ram to his gut, doubling him over, panic seizing him as he gasped for the wind he’d lost.

“He said shut up!” The second voice was deeper, meaner. Cecil’s pinioned arms were seized, and he struggled to get his feet beneath him as he was dragged away from the van. What did they want? What had he done? Adrenaline made his thoughts scatter as he tried to recall the faces of the men in his studio. 

And then, the one at Cecil’s right arm stumbled over a threshold and nearly lost his grip. The black bag over Cecil’s head shifted. The twisted cords around his wrists cut deep as he threw an elbow as hard as he could into his other captor’s ribs. The man grunted, releasing Cecil’s arm entirely -- Cecil wasn’t powerfully-built, but he had enough weight to throw into the man who still held him, knocking him off his feet and tossing his head free of its covering in the process.

He had an instant to recognize garage doors with cardboard-covered windows, and the blindingly bright pendants of halide lamps before the third man’s fist split his cheek and drove him to the floor.

Cecil saw stars. Bits of the universe. He and Carlos had watched the stars last night.

_Carlos. Help me._

Blood stinging in his eyes, Cecil squinted up at the man standing over him.

His cheap suit jacket had been exchanged for a white lab coat.

* * * * *

Nearly 9:00. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to call it an emergency, wanting to give Cecil every benefit of the doubt and pelting the other man’s phone number with testy messages he knew wouldn’t be answered.

_[[Cecil, I’m hungry]]_

_[[When are you getting here?]]_

_[[Cecil it’s late]]_

_[[Cecil I’m worried [Cecil this isn’t funny /// cecil where are you_

_[[where are you]]_

He wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself if he’d waited too long. 

Carlos’ heart sped up as he pulled into the small station parking lot, throat filling with mingled relief and dread at the sight of the Night Vale Sheriff cruiser pulled across three of the spaces, light bar pulsing infrared and ultraviolet (which manifested as a barely-visible purple throb). Throwing the car into park, he left the door standing open as he jogged around the rear bumper of the cruiser...to find two Secret Police deputies sitting glumly on the stoop outside the locked entrance. The scientist stood aghast. “Wh--what are you doing?!”

The more stockily-built of the two was on his feet instantly, short cape flapping just so. “What are _YOU_ doing?” The gold star on his chest read ‘Washburne’. 

“Trying to find out what the hell happened on the radio! What’s it like inside? Is anybody there?”

“The door’s locked.”

Carlos counted to three.

“You’re the cops.”

“We knocked.”

“I called in a disturbance! Kick it down!”

“Doctor, maybe you’ve heard of a little thing called a warrant--”

“IT’S A MUNICIPAL BUILDING!

When the door swung in, knocking against the stopper with a heavy crack, the lights were on.

Carlos would be floored at his own stupidity on later reflection, but he pushed past Officers Washburne and Scopes into the pleasantly-lit reception area, hung with framed newspaper clippings and photos from various local celebrity appearances. “CECIL? CECIL,ARE YOU STILL HERE?!” 

There was a clatter down the short hallway. “...h-hello?” A sensible sandy-colored haircut peeked out from the workroom outside the broadcast booth. 

“HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!” Washburne and Scopes finally snapped to action, blowguns drawn and pointed at the young man crouched in the doorway, goatee doing nothing to hide the baby fat under his chin and the fear in his eyes.

“S-stop! I’m Terry! I-I’m the intern!”

It took a few moments (and an accidental winging with a blowdart) to calm the kid down, and Scopes seated him in Cecil’s chair to catch his breath. Carlos leaned in the doorway, arms folded, trying not to bristle at the blatant contamination of a potential crime scene. Tracking the contours of the room, the overturned microphone, the spill of notecards and brief papers on the floor, the half-full NVPR coffee mug still sitting safely beside the soundboard. Carlos’ chest caved in a little at the cluster of pictures propped alongside the phone. A photo of Cecil shaking hands with Big Rico. Riding a ladder rig with the mayor at one of the bi-weekly Fire-Person Appreciation Parade. Cecil’s own production glossy, dashing and smiling in his headset, shifting complexion caught somewhere between olive pale and tarnished silver. Cecil with a grinning crowd of new Boy Scout inductees. He really was beloved by the town...

“They went out for drinks, I think...” Terry was saying, and Carlos’ head snapped up.

“What do you mean?”

Terry blinked reddened eyes. “It was all just a big misunderstanding, I guess.”

“Who, Terry? Who left with Cecil?”

“I think they were just accountants...Public Radio guys. Discrepancy with the last pledge drive? I-I don’t know...”

Carlos glanced at the Deputies. Washburne shrugged. Carlos sighed and stepped inside. “It doesn’t seem like Cecil. He--” The scientist hesitated. “I...he and I were seeing each other tonight. He didn’t show.”

“Well, Doctor, we can check the bars and the Applebeeses. And if we see him, we’ll tell him to give you a call...”

“Mm...” Carlos sighed. He could practically feel Cecil’s presence vibrating in the walls. It was a good place. Bad things shouldn’t happen in good places. “...what’s that?”

A glimpse of something between the desk and the wall. Stuck next to the trash can. Frowning, Carlos bent to retrive what turned out to be a cleaning rag, discolored from repeated use, but damp -- as if freshly used. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed lightly.

Terry gasped.

Carlos snorted the acrid burn out of his nostrils, then rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Something wrong?”

“No! No, just glass cleaner on that...it’s strong.”

“I see.” Carlos frowned. Then quirked an eyebrow and tossed the rag to the boy in the chair. “Better get that in the trash, then.”

Someone else might have been fooled. But someone who made his living in a lab wouldn’t.

That was no glass cleaner.

It was the unmistakable scent of diethyl ether.


	3. Threatened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil judges his captors' sartorial choices, Desert Bluffs plays jerk songs on their jerk radio station, and things go from bad to worse.

With nowhere else to go, Carlos drove, stomach twisting restlessly. He realized distantly that he hadn’t yet eaten dinner and it was after ten, but vague hunger mixed with anxiety into an unsettling nausea, so he simply pulled into the Arby’s parking lot, parking as far from the neon sign as possible.

The deputies had assured him they’d finish debriefing Terry. He was a nice kid, they’d said -- grad school dropout, parents somewhere on the other side of the country. 

Carlos didn’t trust him one bit.

The average person could buy starter fluid at an autobody shop for a quick high and call it “ether”, but the negligible amount was mixed in a noxious cocktail with heptane and CO2. Pure diethyl ether, on the other hand, was a common laboratory solvent. He’d know the smell in his sleep -- he had bottles of the stuff safely locked in his own lab.

What business would anybody have with it in a radio station? 

Leaning his head against the car window, Carlos watched the lights in the sky, muddled by the illumination from the still-awake restaurant. The turquoise aurora was strong tonight, occasionally punctured by flashes of fiery red-gold, like pebbles tossed in a pond.

The lights reminded him of Cecil, and all at once Carlos was painfully aware that he still didn’t have a picture of his boyfriend in his wallet yet. So he closed his eyes and envisioned the sharp cheekbones, the debonair cleft in his pointed chin, the sable-short clip of his hair, dark shot through with silver and gold and receding just enough to be distinguished. Even his eyes were colored and not-colored at once -- like the reflection of trees and stones in a clear pool...was that a color? Or sun flaring off a ripple? Was there even a word for that?

Carlos wondered if anyone else in the town even noticed, or if it was just his own bewildered sense of romance disrupting his senses, but it seemed like Cecil existed under a soft wash of ever-shifting watery lights and metallic sheen. 

Not everyone was what they seemed in Night Vale.

Or maybe people only showed their real faces among those who mattered most.

NVPR was playing a pre-recorded broadcast of the Pink Floyd Multimedia Laser Spectacular, narrated in descriptive detail for the visually-impaired -- it consisted mostly of Cecil exclaiming in delight before embarking on a tangent about shaving his eyebrows. Carlos turned the station with a wince. A quick trip through the dial turned up several evangelical preachers, a monotonous feed of grinding teeth, and a staticky pickup of DBPR Desert Bluffs’ Train, Creed & Nickelback hour. Carlos was tempted to turn it back to the teeth instead, but finally settled on WZZZ’s oddly-soothing string of repetitive numbers.

He needed to keep his head clear.

_Be safe._

He needed not to panic.

Carlos sighed, starting the engine and dialing up the radio volume as he pulled back out onto the street...It was getting late. He’d go home and call the Community College, leave Ms. Rigadeau a voicemail just to assure himself nobody had attempted to loot any old biochemistry supplies lately (sad as it was that the woman couldn't be convinced of the department's closure...and the condemnation of the building...she was still a remarkably adept lab manager). Then he would make a cup of tea to calm his stomach, pop a Benadryl or two to calm his nerves, and go to bed. 

And by the time he woke up in the morning, surely Cecil would be home. 

 

* * * * *

Cecil curled up on his shoulder, spitting blood on the floor. His teeth ached in their sockets, pain from his cheek radiating into his eyeball, and he thanked his lucky stars his glasses had been lost somewhere in transit rather than broken between his face and the floor. "Watch the mouth, please! This was expensive orthodontic work." 

A scuffed loafer swung his way, but he rolled quickly onto his back and it bruised bluntly against his shoulder instead. "Nobody asked you." The man who had hit him was tall, broad-shouldered with a turkey neck and a thinning head of hair the color of dirty sand. His lab coat was wrinkled.

"What do you _want_?

"You, for now." 

Cecil shuddered. "I am a _radio host_. For public radio, I might add, so if you honestly think there's anything you can possibly get out of me besides a good endorsement on the airwaves for whatever...science...type thing it is you're doing, there are certainly more painless ways to get one!"

The chubby one in the short-sleeved shirt had sleepless circles under his eyes, and he looked almost apologetic as he bent over Cecil, hauling him back up to a sitting position and looking apprehensively up at his ringleader. "...Man, I don't know if he really deserves this," he ventured.

"That's right! I don't deserve a damn thing besides an apology and a ride home!" Cecil wasn't entirely ready to consider the other man sympathetic. There was steel in his grip, and short sleeves with ties were unforgivably tacky unless you were Andy Sipowicz. And something about his face was unpleasantly familiar. Both their faces, for that matter.

Tall and Angry bent swiftly, reaching out to seize Cecil by the front of the collar and twist. "You deserve to shut the hell up unless you want to come with us in a body bag. And Park, you man up or your name's coming off the paper. We don’t owe him a goddamn thing! Besides, Dave says the Sheriff's already done questioning the kid. We’re doing this. Let’s get this guy’s blood."

“ _Blood?_ ” Cecil froze, startled shock ringing his ears like a struck tuning fork. “What do you mean, bl--” He was dragged to his feet. “Whatdoyoumeanblood?!”

The aluminum workbench by the boarded-over windows was coated in chipped sky-blue paint and impregnated with engine grease, and approximately the same dimensions as the exam tables at Night Vale General, which was why the four-point institutional restraint set fit it so well.

"You are making a _mistake_!" Cecil jerked hard at the straps, pulling his shoulders off the grimy surface. “Is this because I called you scientists comedians that one time? Because that was an official police statement! I love scientists! I am completely pro-science! I mean, Carlos isn’t--” Big and Angry shoved him hard back to the metal with a dull thud, a nitrile-gloved hand weighing menacingly on his collarbones.

“Easy!” The smaller one grabbed his companion’s wrist. Just -- don’t knock him around any worse, okay? He won’t last if you start on him too fast!”

Cecil stared, wide-eyed, as the man pulled open his rolled shirt cuff and tore it sharply open at the seam, and cringed uselessly away as a butterfly needle was brought to bear against the crook of his elbow. Licks of panicked orange incandescence rippled across his skin, making Sipowicz curse and jab the thing off-center. “I thought we were done with these Night Vale freaks--” He dug with the needle, finally working it sideways into a shying vein, the tubing instantly suffusing with deep venous red.

The bigger man stared down at Cecil, expression grim. “We are done. And when we get what’s ours, we’ll be gone. For good, this time.”

One vial. Two, three, and Cecil began to feel the fight ooze from his back and limbs, a frightening weariness making his eyelids droop and his ears begin to ring like the hum of subway blowflies. “You people…” His lips felt fuzzy. “Have terrible...safety protocols…”

“We got enough, boss?”

“Looks like it. Set up the test sample first and save enough to write with. If it’s quality, we’ll take the rest.”

* * * * *

 

Carlos awoke on the couch in approximately half of his clothes, head jammed between the back cushions and the armrest. An upholstery button was pressing into his forehead. The phone was ringing.

The phone was--

He lunged for the coffee table, the device slipping from the tips of his fingers as he rolled unceremoniously to the floor after it. “ _C-Cecil?!_ ” 

"This is Simone Rigadeau from the Night Vale Community College Natural Sciences department."

"Oh..." Carlos let his head sink to the floor, a little breathless, a lot disappointed. "Sorry. I'm sorry, yes, Simone." She really did have a pleasant telephone voice. 

“You were inquiring about lab supplies?”

“Well, yes.” Carlos wondered what time it was. The light through the living room windows was pale, so it had to still be reasonably early. “Really, though, I was just wondering if anyone had been by the building lately...you know, anybody looking for something strange?”

“We take security precautions with our supplies, Doctor -- let me just check my inventory spreadsheet.” There was a rustle in the background that sounded like an unfolding tarp. “It looks like the research team was here. They checked out one ceramic-insulated cold case, one 18-ounce flask of diethyl ether, six suspension cell culture flasks, a two-liter dewar of liquid nitrogen, two of the Biology 101L student steel kits, three Snickers bars and a diet Strawberry Fanta, several moans of the already-damned, a whiff of scorched ego and a roll of paper towels.”

Carlos pushed himself up against the front of the couch, rubbing his eyes. “Research...”

“Your research team, yes. I tried to tell them that the Snickers had been in the cabinet a while, but they said it was your favorite.”

Carlos’ stomach sank into itself. “My f--my favorite?”

“Yes. They signed it all out under your name and said they were going to bring it by the lab. You must be working those men to the bone...we don’t see them around town for months and they look like they’ve aged a decade!”

Carlos thumbed the end of the call, his phone dropping from numb fingers, then lurched to his feet. He burst out of the front door into the early morning sun, flannel shirt flapping unbuttoned over his t-shirt and boxers.

Nothing untoward.

Just his quiet little street, around the corner from downtown. Becky Canterbury’s flower garden. Larry Leroy walking his dog on the opposite sidewalk. He raised a jovial hand. “Hey, Carlos! Wild night?”

Carlos stammered a little, cheeks flushing, and he swiped at his couch-styled hair with an irritable hand. 

“Hey, you know what that was all about on the radio last night?”

“Why would I?” Carlo dug his fingernails into his palms.

“Seems like you always get the good word from Cecil. You see him, you tell him he gave everybody a scare!”

“I...will do that.” Carlos nodded tightly, offering a weak thumbs-up. “But I’m sure everything’s fine. Hey, you haven’t seen anything weird on the block, have you?”

“Weird? Nah…”

“Good...good.” He picked anxiously at a hangnail, wishing he’d put on something with pockets before running outside. “Haven’t seen anybody around my place? I thought I heard something earlier.”

“Just the electric company going ‘round back to check your box. They must have missed you when they came around last...”

Carlos didn’t wait for Larry to finish. He didn’t wait, because his house and the adjoining lab ran on solar, and he hadn't paid an electric bill in eight months.

The exterior door to the lab was in the back of the converted garage. Even this early in the morning the rear of the property was stark and hot, with its white gravel and bleached stucco, and Carlos winced and swore as he tread carefully in his bare feet.

He almost missed the note tucked under the mat. Almost. He picked it up, a cold shiver beginning between his ribs as he unfolded the leaf of dot matrix computer paper, several inches of tractor-feed strip still clinging to one edge. The note was written in a crabbed scrawl, the letters rusty red-brown and flaking away every time the paper jumped in Carlos’ suddenly-shaking hands.

__**Bring the data to Desert Creek at 10pm**  
 **or you will never see him again**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness of this chapter! A nasty summer cold, craziness in the office, and some unpleasantness with some extremely unfriendly fellow "fans" put my panfish down for a few days, so to speak. Please feel free to message if you notice anything amiss here -- while a dear friend of mine does a tremendous job beta-reading for me, I did write this chapter under the influence of pseudoephedrine, so. You know. Be nice.
> 
> And finally, anyone who'd like reference pictures for my headcanon Cecil and Carlos, here's the link in super low-tech copy-paste format.
> 
> (http://helloiamfine.tumblr.com/tagged/my%20wtnv%20art)
> 
> <3


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